The Elisabeth Walsh Affair
by darkrogue1
Summary: Blake and Mortimer. AU. This story happens in a very improbable alternate universe in which the unfolding events will lead to the glass ceiling in MI5 vanishing: the women of the intelligence network - very present, but low-level - will be encouraged to rise in rank very very soon after that. Beta-read and edited by Blackpenny
1. For Queen and Country

_September 1954, one afternoon_

"Lieutenant, Lisa is in the hospital!" The officer who almost shouts the news as he enters the room seems panicked. "And the exchange is tonight!"

His superior, more experienced, is much calmer when he asks about the situation. "Her state?"

"Appendicitis, sir. By this time she must be on the operating table."

The officer shakes his head. "Arabella?"

"Undercover, and with a leg in a cast to boot."

"Penny?"

"On a mission in Glasgow."

The lieutenant sighs, examining the possible candidates to replace his sick agent on such short notice. "Alice Lawson?"

"Does not have the necessary accreditation."

"Mathilda Brown?"

"Same."

Frowning, the officer takes his head between his hands to better concentrate. "Miss Mawdsley?"

"Not in London right now, sir."

"Miss Mansfield?"

"Neither."

"Thank you Harvey." Lieutenant Piwett gets up from behind his desk. "I'm afraid I have to escalate this problem."

* * *

A few hours later, after leaving the I.S. Director Col. Dorian Cartwright's office, Captain Francis Blake, head of M.I.5, is in a deep discussion with his counterpart of M.I.6, Commander William Steele.

"But really, William, are you completely sure you don't have anyone you can lend us for this mission?"

"Alas, no." The commander cannot help but smile slightly.

"This amuses you far too much," Captain Blake complains as he opens the door of an office in his unit. "And I absolutely don't see why we can't promote an agent for this simple exchange of documents."

His colleague shrugs. "You know the sensitivity of the mission."

"Promise me, William, promise me that tomorrow you will support my request to have more female agents get higher accreditations. We clearly need more redundancy for cases like this!"

This time, William Steele lets out a laugh. "Granted, Francis, granted!" Then he gets a little more serious. "It is true that on a more critical mission, the effect could have been disastrous."

"Joke all you want!" Blake complains, while sitting in front of the mirror of a make-up table and smoothing his mustache. "It's not you who will have to wear a false mustache all this coming month!" Then, turning to his friend and colleague: "Even Miss Pound could accomplish this mission without problem!"

"She's on vacation in Florence, Francis, I'm sorry."

"And her replacement?"

"Alan Matthews?"

Blake grimaces as he thinks of the young man's thick beard.

At that moment, the door opens and Captain Blake's assistant, David Honeychurch, enters with all the necessary equipment.

"David, I'm sure you could ..." Blake tries again.

"Sorry, Captain." Honeychurch shrugs. "I'm not that much a good actor."

Blake sighs. It would seem that he cannot escape.


	2. Miss Walsh

Ten minutes ahead of schedule Miss Elisabeth Walsh's taxi parks in Holborn in front of the pub chosen for the exchange.

"Here we are, Sir. Sorry, ma'am." Lieutenant Piwett, dressed in a driver's cap, turns towards his passenger who now casts him a black glare from her sky-blue eyes.

Her lips are pursed, her voice is hardly louder than a whisper, but scandalized, and it suggests everything she thinks of the lack of seriousness of her driver. "Our mission has begun! I should be nothing more than your client."

And she goes on without caring if he has heard her. "Watch out for me, and be ready to take me back to Curzon Street as soon as we're done." **

"Yes Miss," replies the lieutenant-driver, finally playing the part.

Being careful not to get her skirt caught, Elisabeth Walsh gets out of the car and, looking left and right, crosses the street towards the pub.

It's a beautiful evening. Night has not yet fallen and passers-by linger while groups of revelers enter and leave drinking establishments. Further down the street a group, a little loud, attracts the lady's attention for a moment, one silhouette in particular… but no. It must have been a coincidence.

There are over seven thousand pubs in London, and even if the nuclear physics team of the London C.S.I.R. had a publication - or was it a birthday? - to celebrate, nothing could lead Ms. Walsh to fear that they would choose this particular area to for their celebration.

Finally, arriving at destination, Lisa pushes the door of the pub.

The place is popular, and the tables are full. There are still some empty seats at the counter where a few customers are installed. The newcomer quickly scans the room, looking for a familiar face. Her contact has not yet arrived, but she spots one of the members of the infiltrated network at the bar: there is at least one person she must watch.

Taking off her gloves and coat, she crosses the room and pushes the door of the women's toilet. She only checks to be sure, but indeed it is entirely empty: her snitch has not arrived yet. On the way, she glances at the mirror, making sure that her make-up is impeccable, that her hair is in place, and especially that the scarf she wears around her neck has not moved and masks her laryngeal prominence well****.

Satisfied with the result she returns to the room and, settling at the bar, orders a pint of tap lager.

The conversations around her are noisy and no one pays her much attention. She is probably too old and not pretty enough to attract men, and so much the better: to be approached tonight of all nights could have been very inconvenient.

From the corner of her eye she watches the door and the new arrivals while she sips her beer, giving all the appearance of someone who, having arrived in advance and relaxing, is waiting for a friend.

Some time goes by, groups come in and out, and as the room seemed to clear a little, a new imposing group makes its entrance, confidently requisitioning one of the newly-freed tables. Judging by their appearance, these new customers are touring the bars and this is not their first stop.

The person Miss Walsh is waiting for is not a group and she only gives them superficial attention when a face makes her stop. This man seems familiar. Where did they meet? Could he recognize her and make her mission fail?

Looking twice, she knows other faces in the group. And upon hearing the voice of one of the new clients who until now had been hidden from view by a taller silouhette, she gets it and must resist the urge to take her head in her hands, dismayed.

"There Driss, come and help me carry the glasses. This time it's on me!"

Elizabeth Walsh shudders, turns away slightly and gives all her attention to her glass. Why did the team of C.S.I.R. physicists end up in this bar? A team whose head is currently ordering beer? Indeed, Professor Mortimer is only a few steps from her side. Oh, bother!

* * *

* First tinted contact lens 1980. Spoiler/it is not time yet.  
** Unbelievable. The MI5's headquarter at the time would be less than 10min away walking from 99 Park Lane?  
*** Apart from a sadistic author. I begin to understand why EP Jacobs chose to give his face to Olrik.  
**** Adam's apple


	3. Serendipity

Because an adventure of Blake and Mortimer normally means mostly Mortimer: he must at least be somewhat there.

* * *

Professor Mortimer, since it is the man himself, sees auburn hair out of the corner of his eye as he stows his wallet in his pocket after paying the barman. It attracts his attention and he turns his head.

A woman, alone, sits a short distance away at the bar, gazing in her glass. She is no longer young and is dressed in a long skirt, which is not really in fashion anymore. A little too thin - too athletic - a little too stilted, and yet something in her draws his attention.

Suddenly, as if she felt the weight of his gaze, she raises her head and their eyes meet. Mortimer is pierced by a shock coming from the depths of his being.

Her eyes are a blue as deep as the sky, as electric as a storm, and during the few seconds they stare, she seems to read him like an open book and to know everything about his life.  
Impulsively, he turns away, whispers a few quick words to his colleague to leave him in charge of the drinks and takes a few steps to get within reach of the unknown woman. Her eyes have not left him and she seems to have resigned herself with good grace to the inevitability of their encounter.

She has a high forehead and a proud bearing, high cheekbones and despite what seems a thick layer of makeup - yet very discreet - she cannot hide her wrinkles: she must be about his age. Looking at her, Mortimer cannot help thinking of portraits of the past centuries. She has a strange beauty, Elizabethan - from the first queen of the name and not from their young sovereign * - and no ring on her very long fingers.

"Um, good evening, Miss," he beings hesitantly. "Uh, Professor Philip Mortimer, at your service, if you don't mind."

A faint smile appears on the lady's face, while an indefinable light passes through her eyes, and her cheeks take on a slight tinge of red.

"How do you do, Professor," she says in a timid voice, handing her hand out for a handshake. "I'm Elisabeth Walsh, but people call me Lisa."

The professor starts. This name suits her very well. He recovers and awkwardly employs the usual conversational formulas: "Delighted to meet you Miss Walsh." She gestures at the unused seat at her side and whispers, "Why don't you take a seat, Professor "

Without hesitation he complies, withstanding the encouragements and gibes of his team who have followed the scene from afar.

Surprisingly, after the first moments of embarrassment, they get on very well and conversation comes naturally to them.

"The European Organization for Nuclear Research has just been formally established and it is therefore a real birth that we celebrate tonight," the professor finds himself explaining to his interlocutor.

"I'm waiting for a friend, but she seems to be running late," she replies, just as candidly, in her soft voice.

One thing leads to another, their conversation deviates from their work towards the past and becomes more intimate. The professor has never found a woman with whom he can have such a free and easy conversation before. She has the same references as he does, similar opinions. Her small smile tugs at his heart, he is totally under the spell. And after recalling their respective actions during the last two wars, Mortimer surprises himself by saying, "If I may, Miss Lisa, how is it that you have never married?"

She blushes at the indirect compliment - she is obviously not at all immune to the professor's charm. "It's a somewhat sad story, Philip, long before the war, when I was still young, I became infatuated with a man for whose family, unfortunately, I would never have been an acceptable match. Over the following years, I refused all offers: I could not forget him, so here I am an old maid, single at an age where proposals have long ceased."

Obviously, she retains a tenderness for the memory of this man, and Mortimer finds himself answering by evoking his own amorous disappointments, Princess Gita at length, and Sarah Summertown, briefly.

The group of physicists has left and their glasses are empty long before their conversation dries up and as the professor begins to wonder if he should propose a refill, Elisabeth Walsh sees out of the corner of her eye a young woman enter the pub and head straight for the facility.

Immediately she gets up and says to her companion for the evening, "If you do not mind, Professor, I'll go re-powder my nose."

He stops her with a gesture, hesitates for a moment, then decides and proposes: "Would you like to continue the evening afterwards in a quieter place? May I invite you to have a drink at my home? With honorable intentions only, of course. Um, I mean…

"She smiles and interrupts him as he begins to stumble in his explanation: this will be the perfect opportunity to leave without being noticed, as the henchman of the criminal organization she had spotted upon her arrival seems to zero on the young woman who has just entered. "What a lovely idea," she says. "I'll be right back."

"I'll call a taxi," Mortimer warns her and she nods. If all goes wel,l it will be Piwett, and she can make her excuses on the pretext that the driver knows her, once her mission is accomplished.

It's time to go back to work.

* * *

* cf The Darnley Portrait wiki/Portraiture_of_Elizabeth_I_of_England#/media/File:Darnley_stage_

** In fact, France and Germany, the last two of the twelve member states have just ratified the convention which establishes the European Organization for Nuclear Research better known by its acronym of the Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire : CERN.

* * *

If you think that at this distance, Mortimer should recognize Blake and that he would certainly pay more attention to a woman who seems to attract him than to a native boy (cf. Abbas)... write your own version. Whether he should recognize and help him, or, on the contrary, disturb the mission. Personally I will not write anything about that. I have far too many other subjects on my plate as it is.


	4. Contact

When Miss Walsh enters the ladies', Eiren Anderson, the small, energetic young woman she came to meet, turns to look at the newcomer.

They are alone and Miss Walsh relaxes her posture.

Seeing this, Miss Anderson immediately takes a defensive stance and, asks, aggressively, "Who are you? What do you want?" She stares at the… person facing her. The disguise is rather good, but it is a man, she can't be mistaken on this.

"The dice are on the table*,Miss Anderson," he answers. "I'm your contact."

Upon hearing this coded phrase, the tension disappears and Eiren slowly drops her guard. "Gentlemen, place your bets*," She grumbles in reply, still unhappy with the fright she has just had.

"What happened to Lisa?" she asks, worried about the absence of her usual liaison.

"She's in the hospital. Appendicitis," "Miss Walsh" says laconically, handing her a piece of paper that he takes out of his purse. "Here are the details, address, room number, you can use those in addition to the usual channels, whether you need an extraction or you just want to contact her."

Miss Anderson nods and takes the paper, which she hides in an inner pocket of her jacket.

Then she takes out a bundle of papers from under the lining of her skirt and holds them out to her interlocutor.

"Here is the list."

Captain Blake, since it is he, reaches for the papers and takes a quick look at them. "Do you think we will have trouble with some of them?"

"Lionel." The answer bursts forth, immediate, and the man raises his head, intrigued.

Eiren shrugs. "The chief may be Anton, but Lionel is dangerous. He's the one who gave us the contacts for weapons and explosives. He has good advice and knows how to make people obey. I am sure this is not his first rodeo. If there is someone to beware of, it's him."

Indeed, amongst the very first names of the list is a Lionel Kroocl, a name with a Dutch ring to it. The captain takes mental notes for the time he makes his report. "I'll have him under watch."

"Good." Miss Anderson seems suddenly relieved, and the captain takes the opportunity to ask her: "Is everything all right for you? Will you hold on until Saturday morning?"

The undercover agent straightens. "I will." She is a little tense, but resolute. "Anton and I had a fight just now, he did not want to let me out, that's why I'm late, but hey," she clenches her fists, "that's not going to stop me."

The man's face turns serious. "If you have any doubt for your safety, do not hesitate and get away ! We have the essentials," he notes, waving the sheets, "and nothing, not even the mission merits putting your life or integrity in danger."

Eiren Anderson feels the full intensity of the man's charisma wash over her and, in an instant, she is certain that he is one of Lisa's superiors. Hell, an officer who cares about his agents this much and does not hesitate to go in the field if necessary must have tremendous success as a recruiter. Who would not be willing to do impossible things for a leader like that?

She resists the urge to salute. "Noted, but it's okay, don't worry."

Blake then hides the sheets in his bodice, and as Miss Anderson prepares to leave, he stops her for a moment. "There was a man watching you at the bar."

She nods. "Yes, Jack, I've seen him. Don't worry, he does not scare me." She pauses for a moment. "Give me two minutes before you follow me."

The captain nods. "Understood. Good luck."

"Thank you." Arming herself with courage, the young woman pushes the door and goes back inside the bar

Once alone, the captain puts his two minutes to good use, then puts himself back in character, checks his appearance in the mirror one last time and, as Miss Walsh, returns to the bar.

Professor Mortimer stands up as he sees her and greets her with a bright smile. My God, she thinks. What would she not give for him to look at her like that without this disguise.

He assists her with her coat, then they walk by the drinkers and out. At the corner of the bar, Miss Anderson is arguing with 'Jack', but in view of her self-confidence and the attitude of clients around her, she does not need help, and Blake, or rather Lisa Walsh, lets herself be guided to the exit.

* * *

* Random coded message from the history of personal messages of Radio Londres.


	5. Late Night

The air has grown colder and it's already dark, but feeling the fresh air on her skin gives Miss Walsh a sense of relief. There was no hitch. It's almost over.

A taxi has stopped in front of the entrance and Professor Mortimer opens the door for her, causing her to start and hesitate. This is not the taxi she was expecting. Where can Lieutenant Piwett be? There is no other taxi in sight on the street so she steps into the vehicle without showing her distress. In any other company she would have been worried about the mission and the documents, but her companion is the last person she has to be wary of; she looks at the driver with suspicion, but everything seems to be in order.

A voice suddenly distracts her from her thoughts. "Are you still coming with me, Lisa, or would you prefer me to drop you off somewhere else?" It is Mortimer, making sure she has not changed her mind before giving his address to the taxi. Whatever she decides, he wants to be able to see her again, whatever it takes. If he must deprive himself of a few minutes of her company this first evening so he can woo her later on, he does not mind it.

If there is but one thing Blake knows with certainty, it is that in no way can he let Mortimer guess his identity, now more than ever! It is therefore impossible to let him drop him off at Curzon Street or even at Scotland Yard. He pretends to look at his watch. "Well, I still have some time and it's not that late. I'd be glad to accompany you."

Mortimer nods and leans towards the driver. "99 Park Lane, please." And off they go.

As a Lisa, he can always call a taxi from their home, Blake tells himself, he can even call his department directly, in case their surveillance and the interception of the dispatch has not worked and this is the reason for the lieutenant's absence.

Discreetly, Blake turns his attention to Mortimer, seated next to him, stiff as a board and apparently making sure he does not encroach on his companion's personal space. Blake does not know if he should regret the professor's restraint, whose indiscretion he would normally dream of, or bless it in that it effectively protects his anonymity.

Thus they drive through London, both silent and slightly tense.

Once at the professor's home - and Blake makes an effort to constantly remember that as Lisa he does not know the place - and after the latter has paid for the ride, Mortimer brings his guest in.

He makes a sign toward the stairs. "I share the upstairs floors with my friend Captain Blake, but our landlady Mrs. Benson lives on the lower floor. Would you like me to introduce her to you?"

"Oh no!" Lisa/Blake exclaims. "It's not worth bothering her at such an hour." Definitely, definitely not! It will be difficult enough for him to maintain the illusion for Mortimer in this familiar place, and he dares not imagine his embarrassment if Mrs. Benson was too perceptive. He darts up the stairs to make a diversion. "Upstairs, you say?"

Once this first pitfall is avoided, it is easier than expected to navigate the situation. Having ushered Lisa into the living room, the professor leaves her a few moments as she admires the decor and he moves towards the back of the room to prepare the drink he promised. "Can I offer you a gin? A whisky?"

She turns away from the statue she was admiring. "Maybe something a little milder if possible?"

"Sherry?" The professor asks, looking at his friend's usual bottle.

Lisa smiles. "Perfect."

And, sipping at her drink, she lets herself be guided by the professor who explains the details and the history of their collection. The company is pleasant, the anecdotes are amusing - even if they are sometimes memories for the captain - and Blake basks in Mortimer's affectionate and admiring looks. It's almost reluctantly, when enough time has passed to make her departure polite, that Lisa asks the professor where to find a phone to call a taxi.

He shows her the receiver right next to the living room door*, and walks a few steps aside to leave her some privacy. Lisa Walsh calls the number of her team directly.

"Harvey." The answer is short and simple, and much more discreet in case of a false number than an "Emergency service, I'm listening" or any other variant of the kind.

"Hello, Elisabeth Walsh speaking, I'd like to order a taxi."

"Walsh!" Says the voice at the other end of the call, before commenting in a more distant voice - speaking to someone else. "It's the captain!" Then he goes on, "Sir, you cannot know how relieved I am to hear from you! The lieutenant had a minor collision and by the time we sent someone else you were no longer at the pub and ... "

While relieved to know that there is an explanation for his designated driver's absence, Blake finds his continuous chatter exasperating. As Lisa, he goes on, as if her correspondent was not speaking: "The address is, uh ..." She turns to the professor who has followed her side of the conversation from the other end of the room.

"99bis Park Lane." He finishes the sentence.

And Lisa repeats faithfully, "99bis Park Lane."

"Noted, sir!" The agent answering the phone is enthusiastic and he starts talking again. "Lieutenant Piwett will pick you up with a new car and ..."

Blake is no longer listening, and he goes on for the benefit of Mortimer before hanging up. "In a quarter of an hour? All right. Thank you."

Blake closes his eyes without turning around, and takes a deep breath. The call disturbed and tired him and the familiar environment around him really does not help. Elisabeth Walsh, he makes an effort to think. Remember that you are Lisa.

But finally, despite all his fears, everything happens smoothly and Blake manages to get to the lieutenant's taxi without losing his disguise.

Once in the taxi, Blake lets himself go back to his original personality. "So, Piwett, you make me work overtime ?!" He attacks first so as not to suffer any comment, but after all he is grateful to the lieutenant, even for his mistakes: he had a wonderful evening.

* * *

* See the Francis Blake Affair

* * *

Uncut version on AO3


	6. Complications

Two days later, on Friday afternoon, Captain Blake is in his office working out his plan to coordinate his team with Scotland Yard's to arrest every member of the anarchist network in one sweet on Saturday morning. He is finalizing the details Lieutenant Piwett shows up at his desk.

Piwett looks a little embarrassed he is bringing to his superior, but the mission must be above all. When the captain asks him to explain the reason for his presence, he explains as follows:

"Sir, Professor Mortimer came back to the pub yesterday, and he has also been seen in the neighborhood asking questions. With the added surveillance we've put in place, our teams are worried that he might attract unwelcome attention. I'm afraid he's going to come back tonight; it seems he's looking for Miss Walsh intending to propose. "

This time Blake strikes his forehead with his palm and slides it in front of his face, murmuring a heartfelt imprecation.

He had returned home early in the morning after that fateful evening with Mortimer. Since then he's been hard at work with debriefings, reports, and orders, and home to bed early. Blake has not actually seen Mortimer since he parted as Elisabeth Walsh; he did not see this coming at all.

Slowly he exhales, looks at his watch. If he hurries he will still has time to intercept the professor.

"I'll take care of this," he says, standing up. As for the rest his work is done; he can rely on his teams.

Putting on his overcoat to go home, Blake feels terribly guilty. If only he had controlled himself! If only he had accepted Mortimer's offer to drop him off elsewhere, even at the risk of being discovered!

Alas, in his work he knows all too well that it is impossible to change the past. Now it's time to do some damage control.

* * *

When he arrives at 99bis Park Lane, Professor Mortimer is at the bottom of the stairs, exchanging a few words with Mrs Benson. He is obviously ready to go out again having dropped off a few things from work.

"Good evening, Mrs. Benson, Philip."

"Good evening Francis." The professor's smile is radiant and Blake blames himself for having to erase it. "I'm going out again."

"No, Philip." Better not delay the inevitable.

"Sorry ?!" The professor is flabbergasted and not quite sure he has heard correctly.

"I must prevent you from going out again tonight. Sorry, old chap."

"Do you need my help with something?" inquires his friend. "I did not tell you: I met a woman, and I absolutely must find her again."

"Philip," the captain interrupts, firmly, letting a hint of regret show in his voice. "Unfortunately, that's exactly what I'm talking about, and that's why I cannot let you out tonight."

Confused and a little annoyed, the professor flounders, "What? Why?"

"Matters of State." Alas, it is clear that Mortimer is not convinced, and Blake fears he will have to reveal more than he wants to.

"Francis, at least explain yourself !"

"As I said, reasons of state." How difficult it is for Blake to keep a stiff upper lip in the face of Mortimer's agitation. "Go back upstairs and I'll give you more details. It's not something I want to address standing in a corridor."

Quite irritated, Mortimer goes up the stairs. Blake glances apologetically at their landlady who has been watching the whole scene. She does not like to see them argue.


	7. Crisis management and resolution

_Et pendant quatorze ans, il a joué ce rôle_  
 _D'être le vieil ami qui vient pour être drôle!_

And, fourteen years long, he has played this part  
Of the kind old friend who comes to laugh and chat.

Cyrano de Bergerac V,5 - Edmond Rostand

Except here it is about twice that long.

* * *

Once they are in their living room, each settled with a cup of tea, Blake remains silent and it is Mortimer who presses him again to explain himself.

"So? Francis, do not keep me waiting. Explain yourself!"

The captain sighs. "Promise me first that nothing I will reveal to you will leave this room."

"I swear it."

Blake nods and goes on, "There's an ongoing operation, several weeks old, which should be resolved tomorrow, and I can't allow you to put it in danger."

Mortimer's eyes suddenly widen with surprise and understanding. "Lisa Walsh is one of your agents!" Blake nods. "But then I do not need to look for her anymore, you'll know how I can contact her !"

Blake closes his eyes briefly, trying to gather all his patience and courage. "Philip, you won't be able to marry her."

"What?" The professor exclaims, but then he wavers,, before wavering, suddenly uncertain. "Oh, is she already married?"

"No. That's not the problem."

"But then, what is it ?" the professor inquires, full of hope again. "Get to the point!"

"Well, Philip," the captain begins, not daring to look up at his friend, "if there is indeed an agent named Elisabeth Walsh, and if you met her, you would not recognize the person you met on Wednesday. Lisa had to be replaced by another agent at the last minute."

"Oh, what's her name then?"

Blake scowls, there's no good way to put it. "Philip, the agent who replaced Lisa is not a woman."

"What?" The professor chokes, shocked. Yet when he sees Blake's serious and despondent look he can only believe it. "A man?"

"Yes, Philip," Blake replies in a firm, neutral voice.

"In women's clothes?"

Yes, Philip."

The professor is appalled. He flirted with a man, made him advances: why did he let him do it? Oh! Mortimer remembers "Lisa"'s adoring looks. The right explanation is perhaps the simplest one.

"Homosexual?"

Blake hesitates for the briefest moment before responding in the same way. "Yes, Philip."

Mortimer lets himself fall back in his armchair. That would explain his partner's hurried flight that night. A man. Farewell to his hope of normality, of finally accessing a more suitable status in society. Farewell his dreamed-of fiancee.

So he got a man to fancy him. More than this fact, what disturbs him is that someone else is aware of it. That _Blake_ is aware of it. Suddenly he feels nervous and ashamed to find himself tackling this kind of subject with his friend, who - oh, God - must at least know how the first part of the evening played out.

Mortimer tries not to wonder to what extent. What mortification!

Seeing Mortimer's distress - he is red to his ears - Blake tries to distract him. "I can give you his name if you wish."

"A bachelor?" The professor's tone is sarcastic, but it is more an automatic defense to divert attention. Since his too close brush with death many years ago, he decided that nothing would prevent him from living fully and he would be the last person to blame anyone for any aspect of their private life. What is more, at the time he was very interested: it would be inappropriate to laugh.

"Yes, since a long time."

Mortimer shakes his head and gets up to pace in the center of the room. A man. He picked up a man in a bar. For a woman he would not have hesitated to leave his current home and make a life with her. But for a man? It would be criminal, to start with, and exchanging Blake for a new flatmate would damage his friend's reputation by association, even though they have never had that kind of relationship.

Mortimer recalls the memory of Lisa at his feet and tries to imagine a man there instead. Usually he would not even allow himself such a thought, but in this state of things it would be very hypocritical not to. He mentally shortens the hair and changes their color - a little darker perhaps? No. Even for a man with whom he would get along that well, he feels no interest. He barely feels a faint echo of the pleasure of that evening. More exactly, he does not see himself surrendering with the same abandonment. Having this level of mutual understanding had been exceptional with a woman – although he had hoped to deepen the relationship. With a man, even with adding a physical dimension to it, the same link would have seemed dim compared to the one binding him to Blake. So much risk for so little reward. It was not worth it. It doesn't even take him a minute to come to this certain conclusion: the name of this man does not interest him in the least.

Turning to Blake to announce his decision, another image imposes itself on his mind. It fills him with a desire all the more powerful in contrast to its absence moments earlier. No, he thinks, impossible. If it had been the case, he would have recognised him. And yet? Is not Blake a master of disguise? The professor tries to suppress the mad hope trying to invade him. What if he is wrong ?

Mortimer is impulsive. He uses his head a lot as part of his job, but the rest of the time he prefers to act first and think afterwards. Also, it would be difficult for him to feel more embarrassed than he is at present; he can't sink any deeper. His interlocutor is Blake, if the answer is negative he will have only to beg his friend to kindly let him forget that the infamous evening has ever existed. With this in mind he immediately returns to sit opposite the captain, who has watched him pace these last few moments.

"Francis, the name of your agent does not interest me in the least. But in exchange, I would like you to answer another question for me."

Blake has closed his eyes for a fleeting moment: he expected this answer. "What do you want to know ?"

"Was it you, Francis?"

Time seems to stop for a moment. Blake freezes before he answers in a voice that does not quite have the assurance of his last few answers. "Yes, Philip, it was I."

With this answer, all the embarrassment and shame that Mortimer has felt until then evaporates instantaneously. It seems that this sublimation has drawn all the energy from his body because Mortimer feels suddenly stunned, as if emptied of all strength. He collapses against the back of his armchair, knocked out by what he has just learned, uttering a curse that marks his extreme surprise and disbelief. "Well, fuck me!" Even though it confirms what he suspected just now, he still cannot believe it.

This imprecation brings a slightly disillusioned smile to the captain's lips. Of course it is not literal. Then he gets serious.

"I apologize, Philip, if I had been able to keep myself better in check - "

But Mortimer interrupts him with a wave of his hand. "Don't flatter yourself. Don't overestimate your talents. It wouldn't have changed a thing. Even if you had not followed me in the taxi, I would have searched for you again with the same intensity. Do you know how rare it is to find such a compatible partner? I thought I had found... " His explanations trail off when he can no longer find suitable words. He is disappointed at the loss of his marital ideal, but what he has discovered in exchange is overwhelming.

"I'm really sorry."

It is a heavy silence that follows the captain's apology, while Mortimer attempts to restore order to his thoughts. He tries to recontextualize and reconcile his mixed memories of the conversation they have just had and that evening, but as he turns their conversation over in his mind, he keeps coming back to the same question that nags at him above all others. Finally, he asks:

"You are homosexual, Francis?" Honestly, Mortimer would never have guessed it.

His friend seems resigned. "Yes, Philip."

"You never told me!" Not only is Mortimer surprised, but annoyed, as he has always confided everything to his friend.

Blake has a little self-depracatory smile. "It's not like it's something I could flaunt." How could he admit to something that society finds unacceptable? "And even if it were, I would never have dared."

Mortimer looks at Blake, who lowers his head and feels his heart tighten. Yes, of course, Francis loves him. How would he have dared confide in him? However, in their youth, he must have already had an idea of his attraction for men. Mortimer suddenly remembers their conversation at the bar and feels a stone drop in his stomach. He cannot believe it, or rather he does not want to be mistaken in his assumptions.

"And this man you loved, before the war," he asks, uncertain, "is he still alive? Is there any chance that your affection could be requited?"

If Blake felt bold, he could have answered truthfully: "I don't know, is it?" But he is anything but confident even if he is already comforted by the fact that Philip has not run away, or grown angry. For a moment he searches for words before he finally answers: "You have no reason to be jealous."

Mortimer takes a sudden breath in. Everything in Blake's attitude confirms his suspicion. Blake was indeed speaking of him.

"God," he stammers. "Oh God, Francis." And then. "Forgive me, it is a lot to take in at once. I cannot help but think that from one moment to the next I will wake up in my bed and find out that none of this has happened."

"It's entirely possible, if that's what you wish."

At this, Mortimer snaps back. "Oh no, no, no!" he almost shouts, suddenly angry. "Blake, do not twist my words into something I did not say!" Little by little he recovers his composure. "You should know that I say exactly what I think! I don't have the culture of secrecy like you do."

In an instant Blake is ashamed of his presumption, even if Mortimer does not seem to blame him too much. "I'm sorry, old chap, it's disconcerting to me, too - to such an extent that I don't know which foot to stand on." He is, in fact, so uncomfortable that he has unwittingly gone back to spy mode and, wanting to read between lines too much, has misinterpreted the professor's words.

Mortimer nods at these apologies and then smiles before he puts into words the image that has imposed itself on his mind. "What if I told you: on none? Would you ? With me?"

For a second Blake thinks he has misunderstood once again, but Mortimer's mischievous and cheerful smile and the glow in his eyes tells him that he is not mistaken this time.

Oh how tempted he is! "What? Now?"

"Nothing like the present," Mortimer answers.

"Then I have to say no, Philip."

Mortimer frowns. He is missing something. "No?"

And Blake explains. "We do not fight often, but you know as well as I do that Mrs. Benson does not like to know that we're having a disagreement. I'm sure she'll come up to check that we do did not kill each other."

Mortimer did not think of that, and while he looks reproachfully at Blake who meets his gaze equally, someone knocks at the door of the living room. As it opens, both men start as if caught in a guilty act.

It is actually Mrs. Benson who brings them tea, and under this pretext comes to check on her tenants. "Good evening, gentlemen, I have tea."

And as she switches her teapot with the one on the table, she clucks at them. "Don't tell me you're still fighting! Captain, can't you let the professor go find his sweetheart? What's wrong with that?"

And as Blake lightly drops his head and does not dare answer, Mortimer does it for him: "A matter of state, apparently," he grumbles.

"Philip!" Blake exclaims, scandalized.

"Oh, I know," Mortimer goes on. "I won't say anything more."

Sighing, Mrs. Benson leaves them to their explanation and exits.

After she has disappeared and Blake and Mortimer have heard her footsteps go down the stairs, they look at each other and quietly giggle like two boys playing atsecrets before they start laughing.

When their hilarity has calmed down a bit, Mortimer asks, still smiling: "You were saying, Francis?"

And the latter answers, joy, hope and a slight incredulity clearly visible on his face: "Well, Philip, that I am all yours."

* * *

Epilogue:

That night, a few hundred kilometers away, an American car is traveling at full speed on the country roads. Slowing down, it turns into a muddy pathway leading to an isolated mansion. Bypassing the main building, the car goes into reverse in the open garage, the door closing behind it immediately. Clearly the car was expected.

Taking off his red beret and stuffing it in his pocket, the driver, badly shaven, wearing a scarf of the same color and worker's shabby clothes comes down from the car.

"Everything went well, boss?" The voice comes from the back of the room and suddenly the light is switched on.

"Well enough. Our snitch was right; the raid is probably meant for this morning. I was under watch and it was not one of those amateur anarchists. But I managed to get rid of the sentry and even if I had to make some detours to avoid patrols, I got here."

Saying that, he unties his scarf and goes on. "Say, empty the trunk while I get rid of these duds."

And while the 'boss' climbs the few steps leading to the house, the henchman opens the trunk that contains bags out of which a few banknotes overflow. "Too bad, red suits you well, boss."

Sharkey get the thrown scarf in the face. "Shut up and get to work, instead of talking nonsense!"

"Yes, boss !"

* * *

Thanks again Blackpenny!


End file.
